by S. A. Harris
I step into the room. I can’t bear to shut the door, not after last time. I must calm down, think how to apologise to my family, make things right before Mark heads back to London in an hour or so. But I stand by what I said. I don’t want the tie or the hassle of a dog.
A scratching sound comes from behind the chaise, the window frames bump and rattle. I can’t see anything, only the willows way beyond the house, branches tangling in the wind. I take a step towards the chaise. The carpet is thin, a floorboard dips, creaks underfoot. The windows shake again, could it be the wind gusting against the glass? The chaise stands on small brass casters. I can pull it away from the doors, towards me, see what, if anything is behind it. I take another step forward.
I throw up my hands to shield my head, a reflex reaction. I duck down, crouch low, banging, flapping greyness coming at me. A scream, my voice. It flies from behind the chaise longue, bangs into the chimney breast, lands in the hearth, pressing close to the empty grate. A few white feathers and splats of shit trail across the carpet. A bird, more terrified than I am, watches, its pebble black eyes fixed on my face. I’m so relieved I laugh out loud. How stupid, how jumpy can I be?
The bedroom door slams. The sound is terrific in the silent house. I spin around in panic. I rush at the door, grab the brass knob. Solid. Locked. I kick at the door, trainers bouncing off the wood. ‘Mark!’ The knob is so tiny it’s hard to get a proper grip, my hands sliding round the metal. Stop it. Stop it. Take a breath.
Breathe.
I let go. Step back, see light glint off the metal as the knob turns. The door opens.
‘What the hell’s going on, Kate?’
For a moment Mark and I stare at each other. The look on his face changes from astonishment to concern. I need to be normal, normal now. I manage a short laugh, a humourless sound. A smile.
‘Just a bird. I was trying to get away from a bird. It came down the chimney, I expect.’
Mark’s looking over my shoulder into the room. I turn around, see a jagged crack in the glass of one of the window panes.
‘A collared dove. It’s gone back behind the chaise longue, I think.’
I take a breath as Mark steps past me into the room, my eyes sting hot, don’t lose it, don’t have a total melt down, not now, not after so long. Another breath as I watch Mark haul the chaise away from the windows.
‘It’s cracked the glass,’ I say, my voice is level and calm. Keep breathing.
‘I’ll open this. It’ll fly out if we leave it here.’
‘I heard something while you and the kids were out.’
I sound okay, my heart’s stopped racing. Mark’s wrestling with the ancient metal catch on the windows, the dove twitches its neck, jutting back and forth, back and forth. How it isn’t injured I don’t know.
‘Bloody catch. Hasn’t moved in years!’ It gives way in a shower of dust and cobwebs and the windows open. Mark takes a step forwards, then jerks backwards into the room.
‘Fuck me! That balcony’s a death trap, Kate.’ He’s glancing at me, we look at the rusting metal, the terrace and garden below, dank from last night’s rain.
‘Let’s get out of here, let the bird find its way out. I’ll close up before I leave later.’
I’m nodding, heading for the landing.
‘Don’t open these windows again, not until we get a builder in to take a look, okay? That balcony won’t stand any weight at all.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘The twins need telling to stay out of this room. I’ll find somewhere to keep the key out of their reach.’
Mark shuts and locks the door, drops the metal key into my palm.
‘Look, Kate, I really came to speak about Riley.’
He’s annoyed, trying to appear calm. He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and spreads a tolerant smile across his face. I can’t blame him.
‘I don’t want a dog.’
‘We said the twins could have one when we moved here.’
‘You said they could,’ I say, stopping just before the top of the stairs. I see the hall is empty, no twins listening in.
‘I assumed you wouldn’t mind. You’ve said nothing against the idea every time the twins go on about it, and let’s face it, it’s a daily mantra with them both. You’re the only one who doesn’t want him.’
‘And my opinion doesn’t count?’
Mark runs his hand through his hair and half turns away. His words rush at me. I can’t grasp them. Breathe.
‘You ignore what I say, my opinion isn’t worth a jot. It undermines me in the kids’ eyes. I’m sorry I exploded. I shouldn’t have gone off like that, but you should’ve cleared it with me first.’
‘You’re here alone a lot. I thought it would be company for you.’
‘I’m alone because you make no effort to move to local chambers.’
My words stumble out, jerky and unsure.
‘If you object so much, the dog can go back to the rescue place.’
‘I don’t want the bloody dog! I don’t want this house. I only agreed to move here for us and you’re hardly here!’
I turn away, wrap my arms across my chest. I hadn’t meant the last comment to fly out.
‘I hate the attic. You keep stuff back and you shouldn’t. I can cope with Mrs Havers’ letter without going nuts, really I can. I’m not fragile, not precious. Treat me like an equal, like you used to.’
‘We’ve been here just over a week, Kate. If you really hate the place we can sell up and move, but I think you need to calm down, give the place a chance, let us all settle in before making any rash decisions.’
‘It’s not about the house or the dog,’ I say. ‘Not even the bloody letter. You know it’s not about any of that . . .’
I can’t speak anymore. My voice is wavering and unsteady, my throat thick, my eyes hot. The affair is like an unspoken whisper. I dare not ask if he’s seeing anyone. Cassy? Someone else? Is it a tit-for-tat thing that will eventually peter out, or more serious?
‘I don’t know how to make it any better,’ I say. ‘I can’t do it alone. We’re going round in circles.’
‘You said you didn’t want to talk about it, remember?’
Mark’s tone is hard, cold, accusing. If we even try to discuss it now the result will be another bitter, soul-destroying row. And he’s better at this than me. He has the moral high-ground, I’m always on the back foot. I pull in a deep breath and close my eyes. Mark’s right, I don’t want to discuss it now. The silence is deafening, my ear drums fit to burst with the pressure of it. I don’t even dare say I love him, I’m too scared of his response. Does he still love me? I just can’t tell.
‘Kate? Are you listening?’
‘What?’ I say. Shit, I’m zoning out, he mustn’t think I’m doing any of that stuff, not any more.
‘I said it’s better if I take the dog back, before the twins get too attached. If that’s what you really want.’
Mark’s voice is flat and quiet. He stands for several seconds waiting for a reply. I nod, willing him to go, leave me alone. His footsteps thud along the landing and fade down the stairs. I listen as he crosses the hall tiles, angry quick steps returning to the kitchen. The door slams.
Chapter 8
Monday, 11th October
Mark left for London before I awoke. A forest of Post-it notes has sprung up around the kitchen. I pull them off the fridge, kettle, backdoor, scrunch them in my fist, bin them. Mark’s concerned. I need to be back on track before this situation gets out of control. I read one stuck to the middle of the kitchen table.
Stove gone out. Can’t relight. Will phone tonight.
The kitchen’s stone cold. Half an hour spent trying to relight the stove’s got me nowhere. Last night was dreadful. The twins and Mark hung out in the kitchen, cooking dinner, doing homework, while I finished stripping the morning roo
m. Mark put the twins to bed for the first time in weeks, then worked in the office. I curled up on Mum’s sofa and tried drawing to settle my anxiety, the pencil like lead between my fingers. Maybe dropping the pills entirely is a mistake. But I can’t shake off the feeling I’d be fine at home, in London. I was doing so well back there.
‘Dad promised we could have a dog,’ says Tom.
Two sullen children have barely spoken over breakfast other than to whinge, moan or complain about the dog. All my cheery attempts at conversation failed. Suggestions of a trip to the cinema or bowling, usually guaranteed crowd pleasers, rebuffed. Nothing but the dog will do. Sophie, possibly Tom too, know I feel on the back foot about the whole damned dog affair.
‘If they put him down, it’ll be all your fault.’ Sophie, slinging back her chair, storms out of the kitchen. Tom looks horrified.
‘They won’t do that, Tom. It’s an animal rescue centre. It’s not what they do.’
Tom shoves his cereal bowl across the table, the spoon tips out and clatters to the floor. We look at it, at each other.
‘I hate you, Mummy.’
I’m relieved to drop the children at school. I settle on a bench just off the high street next to the church, make calls to builders, electricians and a phone company. A decent landline and internet are essential, Mark might work from home once we have broadband. I head back to Haverscroft.
Mrs Cooper’s bicycle leans against one of the pair of massive urns at the foot of the front steps. With all the drama over the dog, I’d forgotten it’s cleaning day. The kitchen’s warm and welcoming with our cleaner in it.
‘Cuppa?’
Mrs Cooper’s red and blue striped scarf is knotted at her throat. She stops wiping the surface as she speaks and turns her broad smile in my direction, J-cloth flapping towards the teapot. No bangles today.
‘I lit the stove. Hope that was the right thing to do?’
‘Thanks. I tried earlier but couldn’t do it. One problem solved, at least.’
She gives me a long stare. I smile, determined to be friendly.
‘It does go out sometimes. Mrs Havers never did know why. There’s a bit of a knack lighting it.’
She bustles with mugs and milk.
‘I thought you might like your leaves read.’ She nods toward the tea pot. ‘See what they have to tell you. What do you want me to do with these?’ She points to some sketches I’d swept into a pile on a corner of the table.
‘Don’t bother about those. Just scribbles for recycling.’
‘Recycling! You can’t be doing that, love. This one for instance, of the church, it’s very good.’
She looks aghast, her brown eyes wide, eyebrows raised. I’ve roughed out dozens of sketches of Weldon high street, the shops and church with its strange round tower.
‘Richard Denning would love this one if you’re throwing them away.’ She holds a sketch towards me. ‘You’ve caught his houseboat to a tee.’
My cheeks burn, doodles for my eyes only, I don’t even show them to Mark as a rule.
‘I didn’t know he lived on the river.’
‘Why would you, love.’ She glances at me, then the sketch. ‘He likes his own company. He was ill once, all a long time ago now. We don’t talk about that.’
‘Please, take what you want.’
I should stop her nosing through my stuff, but for some reason I can’t.
‘This one’s so lifelike. Someone you know?’
I take the sketch she holds out. A dark-haired woman, high cheekbones, wide-eyes, striking rather than beautiful. I’ve never seen her before. Did I draw this last night? I look up, shake my head. ‘Just a study,’ I say. ‘I don’t often draw people.’
‘Well, you should, judging by that,’ she says, pouring the tea.
She’s right, the sketch is by far the best of the bunch. As hard as I stare at the page, no recognition, no memory of her returns. I drop the picture onto the table, my mouth dry, knees buckling. I sink onto Mum’s sofa. Am I zoning out to this degree? Chunks of time vanishing?
‘A cosy idea, a sofa in here,’ says Mrs Cooper, handing me a mug and sitting beside me.
‘It was my mum’s,’ I say, trying to gather my thoughts. My hands are trembling making the surface of the tea, shiver. ‘It’s a bit knackered. We’ll get something smarter for the morning room.’
Mrs Cooper watches me a moment, smiles. ‘You wouldn’t want this reupholstered, would you? It wouldn’t be your mum’s then, would it?’
She’s right but I don’t reply, my mind still on the sketch. Mark suggested we clean the sofa, I’d been uncertain but it came up well. The seats just sag a lot.
‘My husband, Nicholas, died five years ago now. I keep little things, you know, his things. Keepsakes. Reminders.’
How did she guess Mum’s gone? Simpler though, not having to explain.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say trying to concentrate on her conversation.
‘Doesn’t get any easier, does it? Just what we get used to.’
There’s strain in her eyes. Small lines either side of her mouth make her seem older, sterner. I want to tell her about Mum, how ill she was and for so long, how it terrifies me I might be the same. Mrs Cooper’s looking at me, raises her eyebrows quizzically.
‘I was just saying, love, I thought you’d have the little dog with you.’
She pulls the ends of her scarf tighter before patting it into place. How can she know, has she seen it in my horoscope or her tea leaves? All of yesterday’s drama. She must see my puzzlement as she continues.
‘My niece volunteers at weekends at the animal rescue centre. She said the twins were thrilled with a little dog.’
She continues to look at me. I’m getting the idea nothing happens around here without the entire locality knowing every detail. Astonishingly, it seems she only knows half this story.
‘I don’t see how we are going to look after a dog. At some point I’ll be back at work. They’re such a tie, aren’t they?’ My words splutter out. ‘Mark took the dog back yesterday evening.’
‘Oh, I expect the children were disappointed! My Amelia reckoned they were over the moon with it.’
She sips her tea and views me over the rim of her mug. Her brown eyes give nothing away. Does she think I’m a bad parent?
‘Maybe have it here a little while, see how you get on with it? This place might seem a bit friendlier with a dog running about.’
We’re silent for a moment.
‘A big old house like this needs a dog, if you ask me.’ She nods as she speaks, as though this will convince me for sure. ‘I’d certainly be less nervous about the stairs. If the dog’s happy, you can be sure all’s well.’
‘Maybe you’re right. I flew off the handle yesterday, I feel terrible about it. If I fetch it back, you realise we’ll be stuck with it? For good, I mean.’
She smiles, I continue: ‘Mud on the floor, dog hairs on the furniture. You’ll be cleaning up and I’ll be walking the damned thing.’
‘I’m under no illusions there, dear. It’s worth the effort, though. A bit of company for you and the children. I’ve bought a little green lead for it.’ She glances towards a brown paper bag on the work surface. ‘Shame to waste it.’
The sky darkens with rain, the treetops blurring when I leave the rescue centre and head for the towpath and river. Riley’s an engaging little mutt. His short legs scamper along nineteen to the dozen, nose snuffling under hedges, shaggy Dennis Healey eyebrows twitching up and down each time he looks at me. No wonder the twins were besotted.
Sophie’s odd comment, like the other dog, unsettles me. Her imaginary friend left us, to Tom’s great relief, when the twins started school. Is this another one? Sophie’s way of coping with all the upheaval of the last few months. It’ll drive Tom nuts. I’d wanted to ask her about it this morning but she wa
s barely speaking. It’s probably nothing. My mind wanders back to the woman in the sketch. She turns my guts to jelly. Am I relapsing? Is my anxiety rushing back so fast I’m again doing things I’ve no recollection of? How had I drawn her so well? I usually draw open spaces, landscapes and buildings, the park near our London home full of stick people. Portraits don’t work well for me.
Riley and I pass the church on the way back to Haverscroft. If we hurry, a stomp around the graveyard might reveal a few snippets about the Havers before the heavens open. If I know about the house and concentrate on making the place a home, if I find out what happened to the children, my mind will be calm, the anxiety will settle down. The weird zone-outs will stop.
Ploughed fields stretch to the horizon either side of scraggy bare hedges. According to the deeds, this is land sold off by Mrs Havers years ago. We turn right and head along the towpath, the river is black and slow beneath an arching tunnel of dank trees. I pull my mobile from my pocket, text Mark to say I’d had second thoughts about the dog. Sorry for yesterday’s outburst.
It’s almost a year since the chambers Christmas drinks reception. I don’t think about that night often now. How Stephen swore me to secrecy, his wife must never know. Mark need never know. Too much to lose, why would either of us whisper a word? But I’m not Stephen Blackstone with years of infidelity behind me. The guilt of one night grew like an aggressive tumour, worming its way into every aspect of my waking hours, depriving me of sleep, driving me insane until one evening, more than three months later, I blurted out to Mark the sordid details of how I’d fucked his head of chambers. The man he works with and juniors for every day of the working week. Could he forgive me? In those few words, our lives changed. What had I thought my husband would say? Offer me absolution, trust and love me as he always had just because I’d come clean.